


The Street Sweeper

by LupaDracolis



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Deutsche Demokratische Republik, Gen, German Democratic Republic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-15
Updated: 2011-12-15
Packaged: 2017-10-27 09:10:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/294097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LupaDracolis/pseuds/LupaDracolis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The street sweeper had silvery-white hair, and eyes the colour of fresh blood. Not many people who passed him noticed this, as he worked, because street cleaners were given the lowest of jobs for a reason, and it didn’t pay to appear to watch them too closely, or too sympathetically, because other people, who were watching you, might spot this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Street Sweeper

The street sweeper had silvery-white hair, and eyes the colour of fresh blood. Not many people who passed him noticed this, as he worked, because street cleaners were given the lowest of jobs for a reason, and it didn’t pay to appear to watch them too closely, or too sympathetically, because other people, who were watching you, might spot this.

Those who did look at him – usually only a glance, but sometimes with a more lingering gaze – seemed to feel a vague sense of national pride. Those who noticed the increase in sentiment tended to put it down to the fact that, in this wonderful country of theirs, everyone had a job, even negative thinkers and people with false opinions about the country and its rulers worked at menial positions like this street cleaner.  
Imagine how great their surprise would be, if they found out that their great and free and noble and bountiful Deutsche Demokratische Republik was reduced to sweeping his own streets.

It was his own fault, in a way. In a way, because it had been he who resisted working in the Russian’s house, like so many others he could name did. In a way, because it was he who had laughed at the large, blond man, with the threateningly innocent eyes, as the latter punished him for stealing bread (“We are all comrades, da? That means we share, East Germany*”.) It didn’t even matter that they both knew Latvia had done it. Not really.

In a way, because this – all of it – was not his fault. It was Russia’s idea, the street-sweeping, of course, damn him to hell. In a way, because one German had to be a Soviet, and it was he who had pushed his younger brother into the role of West Germany.

But really, truly, it didn’t matter whose fault it was. Because what it came down to was the once– Prussian Empire sweeping dog shit off the pavement of half of his heart.

Some people – very few, maybe five in a million – recognised him. Not because they were introduced to him before, or anything, they just knew. They came to see him, when they could; not while he was working, but in his little flat, in one of the new apartment blocks that were being erected almost constantly. Each time they came, he warned them away, said he was being watched, calling them his Kindern, his children… but they always came back, and both he and they knew how grateful he was to them.

 

One day in mid-December, one – an eighteen-year-old boy by the name of Joachim Schneider – knocked on his door bearing a large parcel, wrapped badly in brown paper and string. After the traditionally warning from the albino, they embraced, and Chim was ushered into the tiny apartment.

“Frohe Weihnachten, Ostdeutschland**!” he announced, presenting the gift. When opened, it was revealed to be a beautiful woollen coat; long and thick and warm. Pulling it on, Ostdeutschland (as he insisted they called him, when they tried “DDR”, because that is worse, so much worse, and thanks to Russia he knows he doesn’t deserve his old name anymore) marvelled at its warmth, before demanding to know where the boy had got it, knowing could definitely not have afforded such an item, unable as he would be to get across the wall, to where such things are commonplace in the winter rather than an incredible luxury.  
The response caused him to sit down, quite suddenly. It seemed that Chim’s grandfather had been visiting West Germany (old people, they allowed across). While he was there, a tall, muscular blond man had come up to him, proffering the coat.

“At first, Grossvati thought he was trying to sell it, but the man insisted it was a present for someone in the DDR – sorry – East Germany; an albino, he said. He also said Grossvati would know who it was when he saw him, but he told me and I knew it had to be you. It was your brother, wasn’t it – Ostdeutschland, was ist los? What’s wrong?” It was here that he had sat down heavily. He remained silent for a moment, the teenager watching him anxiously, until he stirred.

“Ja… das war… that was my brother. Did he say anything else?” Without warning, he stands, and his hands are gripping Chim’s shoulders almost painfully tightly. “Did he tell your grandfather he was coming to get me? Did he‽ Scared, the boy tried to break away, but his nation’s grip was too tight. “Tell me, Joachim!”

“N-no!” Chin finally managed to blurt out. “No, I’m sorry Ostdeutschland! He said he missed you, but that’s all!” With a guttural snarl, and a feral expression to cover his hurt and disappointment, he released Joachim. Turning to pace the small living room-cum-kitchen-cum-dining room, he jammed his hands into the coat pockets, only to pull one quickly out, with a curse.

“Mein Finger!” And indeed, his finger was bleeding – it had been pricked by something in the pocket. After sucking briefly on it to remove the blood, he reached back in, carefully withdrawing the culprit; a badge, the pin hanging loose, and this is what he had stuck his finger on. The front of the badge was a slightly stylised cross, with symmetrical, curved edges, and coloured black on silver. It was ein Eisernes Kreuz, an Iron Cross – not one of the most recent ones, with the Swastika on, but an old cross, with the initials FW on it – and it was a sign they had agreed on, years ago. Intended to be used the other way around, but it meant soon. Soon, brother.

Joachim wasn’t sure why ein Eisernes Kreuz caused his country to hug him so tightly, but he was happy to return the embrace.

*Because Russia calls him East Germany, always calls him East Germany, and will only have him referred to as that in the house, because Prussia is dead.  
** Merry Christmas, East Germany


End file.
